Élan Vital
by The Phantom Parisienne
Summary: Erik dies, but reawakens in the body of a small child in the year 2003. He soon discovers that he wasn’t the only one; Christine, Nadir and Raoul are in 2003 as well. Strangely, the bodies that they are in belong to real children. ((Complete!))
1. Prologue: The Awakening

**Disclaimer**: I do not own POTO.

**Author's notes**: This idea's been in my head for quite a while now, and when I was sorting through my notes and sketches, I found it.  Do enjoy!

Also: on the subject of the title. It's an English word with a French etymology.  It basically means the "vital force or impulse of life"; a synonym for "soul" or "spirit".

**Summary**: Erik dies in 1881, but reawakens in the body of a small child in the year 2003.  He soon discovers that he wasn't the only one; Christine and Raoul are in 2003 as well.  Strangely, the bodies that they are in belong to real children; the souls of those children are gone in place of the trio's, and they must find them.

Also, I **_did_** remove "Her Darkangel" and it will NOT be coming back.  I'm sorry to those of you who liked it; it was not my best writing and I really wasn't happy with it.

"**Élan Vital**" by The Phantom Parisienne

Prologue: The Awakening 

I wearily shut my eyes to the bright pain that was the glow of the candles. My pen, loaded with crimson, blood-like ink, danced over the manuscript, leaving trails of my Hellish creation.  Christine was gone...and Death was swooping to me on swift dark wings.  Light burned me; darkness was the fuel of the waning flame that was my life; darkness, and the desire to complete Don Juan Triumphant.  Don Juan Triumphant was a chronometer of my time remaining on earth, or should I say: a strange sort of Hell that was only preliminary to the real fiery inferno ruled over by the Devil himself.  When I completed Don Juan, my life would be complete, and I would extinguish from life as the candles did.

The loud, drumming beat of my heart echoed through the silent halls as I gave a shudder and wrote on through the eternal darkness that could have been mid-afternoon on the surface of Paris.  Night and day were one; always black, lit here and there by flickering candles.  Day had neither meaning nor place in my underground labyrinth.  Night was immortal in Hell.

Unconsciously my hand created a small red rose with the pen on the yellowing parchment and signed "Erik," the name of a man that had ceased to exist.  My long fingers drifted to the edges of the large book and closed it slowly.  It was over: my life's work, Don Juan, was complete, and I was to take it to my grave with me.  I would never wake up.

Of course, there was a possibility I would wake up in a real Hell filled with demons and illuminated by blazing furnaces.  I was not foolish enough to believe that my soul was destined for Heaven after all of my vile sins and crimes.  A murderer, demon, _and_ thief was most likely doomed to the Devil's realm for eternity.

Very solemnly, I lifted myself from the organ where I had been writing and, holding Don Juan Triumphant in my trembling hands, began to climb into the scarlet silk-lined coffin.  Instead of my intended deep breaths, my breathing was short and hurried.  I was shaking violently and my vision was becoming unnaturally blurred; no tears were in my eyes.  Nervously I lay down in the coffin and pulled the lid over me, the darkness no real change from my black-and-red-draped bedchamber.

My eyelids slid closed and I smiled slightly. "Angel, enjoy Heaven for me."

And then, I passed from existence.  

Or, I would've.

But I didn't.  

I was alive.

Not in Paris, but still alive...breathing, my heart beating, my eyes seeing, my ears hearing.

It wasn't possible.

Regardless, it was happening.


	2. Little Lotte

**Disclaimer**: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera or anything, for that matter . . . well I own "Erik's mother" in a sense…and the children whose bodies they're in, so that sorta counts. … yeah…x.x; 

**A/Ns**: Thank you to all reviewers for your support to continue!  Yes, I'm aware that I do come up with odd ideas.  You haven't seen my notebook where I keep my premises for my stories . . . be glad of that.

**Countess**, many thanks for your opinion on the setting for this scene. ^_^ *hands you a hat* Another hat!  Hurrah!

**Deirdre of the Sorrows**: I was considering putting in the daroga, and after much consideration (and, of course, your review) I have decided that he is a main character too! *claps*  

And merci beaucoup to the rest of you: **Miss.Understood, Labyris, ****maelinya, Phantom Aria, Anonymous, Feya, **and** Daroga's Rainy Daae.  **And especial thanks to **Daroga's Rainy Daae** for being very supportive of continuing…grazie, senorita.   ^-^  As to the future of this story: it will most likely be **R/C**.  Don't hurt me! *curls into fetal position*  It'll get dark and angsty, but Erik gets his moments of happiness….I hope. O.o;

The below quote will make sense as time progresses…it relates to the souls of the children.

A simple child  
That lightly draws its breath,  
And feels its life in every limb,  
What should it know of death?

_~William Wordsworth_

_"Élan Vital"_ by The Phantom Parisienne

Chapter One: Little Lotte

The odd state of events did not seem as though I had passed into eternal sleep and "reawakened," but rather, the time had flowed smoothly, with no creases or overlapping.  I had blinked, and my eyes naturally opened to a totally different scene.  I almost gasped a loud but soon thought better of it when I realized that I was being "cradled" in the arms of a woman.

By this point I had opened my eyes wide, and was taking in the view from her lap.  Large, leafy oak trees spread out overhead, their branches reaching out to the other trees in a strange yet beautiful gesture.  The temperature was a pleasant one, though quite cool, with the faintest hint of a wind.  I glanced down at the beige pavement and a swirling cluster of leaves flew by in a fiery whirlwind.  The place was like Heaven to me, who had been locked inside a building for weeks without the feeling of fresh air on my bare cheeks.  _My bare cheeks._

Frantically I reached my hands to my face and felt smooth skin…not the rough, scarred flesh I so vividly recalled.  What was going on?  There was some sort of magic behind this…as a child I had been fanatically obsessed with magic and mirrors, but as I grew, began to doubt the existence of magic and fantasy.  Everything I had denied was eerily reflected in my current situation.  I turned my head around to see the face of the woman whose lap I resided on.  Her eyes were closed in peaceful sleep, and her hair tumbled down her shoulders in dark, almost black curls.  I could not determine whether the grey parts of her hair were simply shine from her (obviously) oily hair, or premature aging.  Her nose was almost too long for her face, and reminded me of nothing more than a flesh-coloured bird's beak.

For the first time since I was a child, I was afraid.  It wasn't that I could see anything terrible, but the simple fact that I could _feel _it.  Deep down inside my now-small body, I felt something dark and dangerous.  I didn't belong there.  Someone was suffering because of me, I knew.  Who?  And why?  Determined to make something of the baffling situation, I carefully slid from the woman's lap to the ground and stood up, stretching myself to full height.  _No…_I thought.  _There is something wrong.  Why am I not dead?  Why am I so small…why does everything look so big?  Why?  Why?_  Now near-panicked, I backed away from the woman and looked around me.  In a very odd, deep down sort of way, I sensed that she was my mother…not _mine, _really…but whoever I was at the moment was her son.  It was just intuitive.  I felt it in my bones.  _Mother._

 The sound of laughter broke me from my reverie.

It was the sound of pure joy and ecstasy.  The music of the angels!  I closed my eyes blissfully and took it all in, smiling faintly, ignoring the biting fear of the devil's work.  The metaphor made me chuckle softly.  The devil…had I not always been to commoners to the personification of the master of evil himself?  Those who did not know me thought I was the devil.  My mother believed I was not really her son, but the child of Satan.  Now, I, experiencing the true meaning of his demonic intentions, knew that they were wrong.  They were superficial and knew nothing.  

Through the laughter, I could make out two distinct words: "daroga, please!"  Was it pure coincidence, or simply my imagination?  Or was it really he?  Though I often found him terribly annoying and prying, now, in this moment of confusion, there was nothing left to do but follow the voice.  The voice was that of a female child, but the tone and aura of it was so familiar…dare I hope?  No.  But still, through the childish French I could detect the echoes of a clear, beautiful soprano.  It was imagination, I first assumed.  It was too idealistic to be real!

In a frenzied manner I found the origin of the voice.  Two children about my size, one female and one male, sat upon the grass underneath one of the huge oak trees, conversing rapidly in French.  I only needed to hear one thing that came out of the boy's mouth to confirm my suspicions: "Where is Erik?"  He was rather tall for his (as I assumed) age of four, with shockingly orange hair and watery green eyes.  However, the tone and quality of the voice immediately told me his real identity: _Nadir._  The girl standing next to him was a lot smaller, and pleasantly plump.  She had dimples when she smiled, which at the moment she faintly was…a rather nervous smile, mind you, and sparkling grey-blue eyes.  Dark golden curls tumbled down her shoulders and were barely held back by a large red ribbon. A wry grin twisted my features as I thought of one thing: the legend of the Angel of Music; Little Lotte.__


	3. A Smile

Disclaimer: I don't own Erik's soul, Christine's soul, Nadir's soul, Raoul's soul, or their real bodies… that aren't really in this chapter…in fact, I am not sure that their actual bodies will be making cameos in the scenes to come.  

I do, however, own the children and "Snapette" as I've dubbed her, thanks to an amusing review from **Daroga's Rainy Daae**.

**A/Ns**: Ah, reviewers...such sweet, divine people they are.

**Feya**, I'm really honoured that you would say such a thing about me...*grovels* Though if you think I'm good, read **Riene**'s works...and **Christine Persephone**'s, too.  I don't hold a candle to them.  And **Stemwinder**!  They're all fabulous.  Or just go through my favourite authors' list.  They're all wonderful writers.  Best poet on the site, **Phantom Aria**.  Take my word for it.  *jabs thumb in direction of **Phantom Aria***

**Deirdre of the Sorrows**, I'm glad you're happy the daroga's in! ^^  He's going to be an interesting character to weave into this, let me tell you.

**Daroga's Rainy Daae**, her new nickname is Snapette.  No more needs to be said on the matter. XD

I very sincerely apologise to you reviewers who were waiting OH-SO-PATIENTLY for this installment of "_Élan Vital_."  *watches as no-one responds*  Apparently no-one was....*shrugs*  If you are...and are silly enough to remain silent...read on!  And have a nice day...for me. *goes off to take a nap*

Quote of the day appropriate for this chapter.

"_A smile. _

_Blooming like a flower in our dark surroundings. _

_Inspiring us to new heights of musical grace. _

_As our lesson continued I thought sadly about how rare that smile truly was. _

_I never remembered seeing it before or maybe I never noticed. _

_Then again maybe it was always hidden. _

_Something I'm never meant to see_."

~_Phantom Aria_, "A Smile"

(If you haven't read her poetry, you should.  Don't make me chase you with a chainsaw; I really haven't got the time for it.)

Btw, the deaths of Christine and Raoul are described in full detail in "All I Ask Of You" and "The Death of the Angel", both by yours truly. *SHAMELESS SELF-ADVERTISING*  It's not necessary to read them if you haven't already, but the main important things from them are that Christine and Raoul _are _married, and Raoul dies first…Christine soon after.

-~-~-~-~@

"_Élan Vital_" by The Phantom Parisienne

Chapter Two: A Smile

My heart seemed to rise up in my chest and into my throat.  Christine...it truly was her.  This form, so awkward and unreal, resembled her ever so slightly.  Pure, childish innocence and beauty radiated from her form.  My angel stood, unaware of my presence, right before me, not afraid of me, not knowing I existed.  It was a terrible yet beautiful thing; I was not hideous, and she did not know me; quid pro quo.

Nadir turned to me and sighed.  "Christine, pretend you are...who you are meant to be." He obviously thought I was truly a little boy.  Not deformed in any way…was it perhaps another chance at life?  Life without all the pain and terror I had known?  Did I dare to even dream that…?  Perhaps it was just a strange prelude to Hell!  

Christine gulped and looked toward me, smiling nervously.  "H-h-hello..."

I did not reply.  I could not reply.  I was momentarily robbed of the ability to speak.  Nadir gasped slightly, realising my true identity. They both quickly rose from the ground. Christine turned to him.  "Monsieur?"

"Angel," I breathed.

"Erik?"  Christine mouthed.  "It can't be!  No!"  Her hands drifted up to her face.  It was a truly strange sight to see a mere child express emotion as a fully-grown woman.  The sun filtered in through the bright green leaves and seemed to encircle her golden hair in a crown of light.  My heart leaped into my throat.  "Erik?  Can it be?"  Nadir stared straight at me with his usual piercing and questioning look.  Christine's blue-grey eyes widened in astonishment as I closed mine in confusion, bliss, and wonderment.  The leaves and twigs crackled softly beneath her small feet as she slowly walked toward me.  "It must be...I can feel it."  

I lifted my eyes open and moved backward slightly.  I was Erik, yet not.  I was the boy, but at the same time only a possessor of his body.  It was all wrong.  "Christine, no... This isn't right!  Look at me, look at Nadir, look at yourself."  I swallowed, and she blinked back—what I thought were— tears.  

Nadir stepped forward.  "Erik, we know something has happened...that's actually what I was speaking to Mlle. Daaé about before you arrived.  And this world, this strange world, is different; wrong; we don't belong."  Christine meekly nodded her agreement.  "Erik, what happened, exactly, before you found yourself here?"  The words leaped out of his mouth in a cumbersome manner, as if he had been attempting to restrain them from jumping out.  Obviously he was curious as to the answer of his question.  The answer was excruciatingly simple.

"I...died."  At that moment, when I whispered those two painful words, it was as if some other person were causing my—rather, the boy's—lips to move and enunciate the syllables.   It wasn't me...I simply did not believe that I had told her this.

Her eyes widened.  Nadir hung his head.  The gestures of mature, adult sorrow and pain acted by such childish features nearly caused me to smile.  I say nearly, because I quite honestly did not.  As far as I could remember, there was only one occasion when I had smiled...and it was in her presence; the presence of my sweet Angel of Music during one of our blissful music lessons.  

((_Author's note: See "A Smile."  *watches as no-one moves to go read the poem* NOW!!!!!  *drill sergeant mode*  Well...wait until you finish this chapter.  *hugs readers*_))

Quite suddenly, Christine flung herself at me.  She literally burrowed herself in my arms.  "Erik, don't let go...please say you won't." Bewildered, my arms seemed to drift around her body in a strange trance-like state.   "It's what happened to me..."

((_Author's note: Picture a mini-Christine and an Erik of a physical description that I will come to later...a cute little boy is what I'll say now...picture them in this scene, Christine teary, and Erik confused...isn't it ADORABLE?! *falls asleep*_))

"I as well," a new voice said, cutting in.  I knew that voice...that young, innocent voice.  The viscount.  Christine quickly withdrew from my arms, recognising it with the same lightning speed that I had.  I looked up at the face, and was not at all surprised to see that it contained the childhood of a man who would become handsome.  Brown-gold locks were neatly combed and parted slightly to the side, leaving a pale forehead revealed.  Beneath was a pair of wide cerulean-blue eyes, youthful and curious.  "Christine...is that you?  Monsieur Kahn?"

Christine nodded, her head toward the leafy ground.  "Yes, Raoul."  Nadir very respectfully nodded his head as well.  The viscount looked toward me, and for a moment I was unsure that he knew exactly who I was.  I had the odd suspicion that if he really did know my identity, he would jump at me, teeth bared, like a wild animal.  He squinted his eyes in an effort to recognise me, because I could detect that he sensed a strange dark aura around me that I had sensed in the others.  That aura—and the echoes of our true voices—was the one characteristic that distinguished us from actual children.  Something dark and mysterious lingered on all of us, invisible to the eye, crystal-clear to the cloudy and confused mind.  It was like a dark shroud of fog, lingering around our features, as we possessed these bodies for our own.  Somehow, some way, mine was darker than the others…pitch-black shadows encircled me in a subconscious way.  And he realised it.

"Monster!" he whispered.  "It is you!  Christine's Angel, and the ghost!"  He seemed unsure of what to do.  In all honesty, I was paralysed just as he was at a loss of a proper reaction.  Christine's hand suddenly moved, then dropped back to her side, as if she was restraining herself from committing an action that she had long desired to do.  

"Raoul, his name is _Erik_."  She wrung her hands.  "Erik, I suppose I must tell you…Raoul and I…we…we got married."

My heart sunk back down to its proper place…and below; to my feet.  In a way, I berated myself mentally for not having sensed this earlier, or even to have known instinctively.  I had told her that she would be happy with him, had I not?  Two perfect, beautiful young people deserved one another in holy matrimony.  Why did I ever dare to think that they for some reason did not marry?  It had not dawned upon me in my final hours…I thought only of Christine's angelic face and not of the man she was engaged to.  Because I was foolish enough not to assume that they had married, I was struck wordless and motionless.

"Erik, do not take it harshly…"  A soft sniffling sound came from her, and I flicked my eyes at her face, which was splotchy and red and increasing in colour by the second.  She was crying…_for me._  Nadir nervously clasped his hands behind his back and buried the toes of his strange plastic-y shoes in the dirt.  M. le Victome—as I shall refer to him from here on—put his arm around her shoulder very tenderly and smoothed her hair with his other hand.

((_Author's note: After writing this paragraph it occurred to me that there might perhaps be massive amounts of R/C phluff in this.  I don't exactly know if that's true, but there'll be more R/C phluff than E/C, if there _is _actually any E/C, which makes me a bit sad, but makes the story more true.))_

Nadir glanced at me.  "Erik, are you quite all right?  You look rather ill."

I certainly _felt_ ill…I could feel my heart beat and with every drumming sound I felt pain.  Pain for my Angel, who I had lost to a younger, much more handsome, and richer man.  It's at times like these when one wishes they had a sort of weapon…

((_Author's note:  Erik's a bit cynical, is he not? *snerf*))_

After perhaps two minutes of this blindingly painful torture, Christine had recovered from her mood swing, and Raoul had released her from his loving embrace.  She smiled.  She actually dared to _smile_ over his touch in front of me, the only man who would ever truly understand that she was a child and needed care?  _Me?_  It was almost too much to bear.  Almost…I held every terrible emotion inside my heart…the pain made me feel as if my darkening spirit's flame was to be extinguished from this circle of spirits.

Quite unexpectedly, a pair of arms seized me from behind and lifted me up.  "What have you been doing, dear?  Mama fell asleep and you crawl off to play with your little friends!"  She laughed a bit, a metallic laugh that matched her metallic, British voice.  With one last glance at the trio, I could sense that they did not understand her English, and that I was in very deep trouble if I was to be taken from them.  Only with them could we ever try to figure out why and how this had all happened…Frantically I kicked as hard as I could, striking the mother in the stomach.  "Ouch!  Don't do that!" She held me away from her body, as the three looked on, now a bit confused and frightened.  It was utterly degrading to be held like that…I despised every minute of it, though I should be savouring it like my last moments on earth…I had never been "held" by my mother…simply shunned and abandoned.  Now that I reflect, I think I perhaps liked it better.  

Taking a deep breath, I imitated what I assumed the toddler's voice would truly sound like, in English, and said, "Put me down!  Mama…down!"  

"No no no…we must go now!  Say good-by to your little friends…tomorrow we'll come back to the park, dear.  Wave good-by!"  She took my little hand and waved it at them.  "Say good-by!"

"Good-by," I said sullenly.  Christine waved to me and M. le Victome stood perfectly still, not doing anything.  Very quickly, she flashed a meek smile at me before my mother turned away.

"Let's go home, dear," she said cheerfully as she set me down and took my hand in hers.  "Papa's coming home today, don't you want to see him?  Those nasty business trips of his keep him away, and I always say, 'why aren't you home to spend time with your little boy?  You know he loves you and that you're always away…he misses you.'"  Not paying attention to a single bit of her monotonous, simple speech, I concentrated on meeting them the next…it would take all of my willpower to keep from letting myself be recognised as _not_ being the boy.  All of my willpower…and the desire for a smile.


	4. Mère et Père

**Disclaimer**: See previous chapters.

**Author's notes: **I'm glad that everyone is liking this so much!  Gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. *preppy squeal*  You can tell I've had far too much ice cream and read far too much Poe, can't you?  

I know it sounds a bit strange, but I think that this is perhaps my favourite work out of everything I've ever written...CHILD ERIK (Ewik) IS SO HUGGABLE!!!!  If you knew what he looked like in my mind, he would be strangled to death mentally....*squeezes him*  

Ewik: o.o; *chokes*

*ignores*

This is going to be weird…twists in the plot are coming, and they're coming _fast._

**Gaia Angelus**, thank you! ^^

**Bubonic Woodchuck**, ain't it adorable?  I'm turning into a sap, aren't I?

**Deirdre of the Sorrows**, I know, Christine's starting to irk me, but my muses are feeling R/C at the moment…I'm mentally berating myself for it, too.  Btw, I sketched a chibi drawing of mini-Nadir in this…he's too cute for words.  *hugs him and hands him to you*

Mini-Nadir: o0;;;

**Lavendar**, the idea seemed odd to me at first as well…I just got into it once I began writing.  Thank you so much!  It was a mere chance story…didn't ever expect it to get written.  I'm glad it's interesting, at least

**Phantom Aria**, thanks for the cookies! *munches on them*  Ewik forever, eh?

I figured that I might as well turn the quote thing into a constant.  For every chapter there will be a significant quote...and the Wordsworth quote from earlier is, in general, for the whole story...you'll see why.   This quote is really important…take note of it.

"_Children are the anchors that hold mothers to life_."

~_Sophocles_

"_Élan Vital_"

Chapter Three: Mère et Père

My hand was nervously clasped in my "mother's" larger one as we walked toward the gate of the park.  I glanced up at her face, and she was smiling.  Dark eyes glittered from beneath a relaxed brow.  Her face, which had reminded me of a sullen raven in sleep, looked very odd while smiling.  It was as if her face was simply made to frown...the dimples in her cheeks could not have been more out of place on a monkey.  Inside her there was sadness, outside, happiness.  Her face did not mirror her true feelings, and I sympathised with her.  Only a truly terrible person would dare to rob her of momentary joy such as this.

When we stood at the curb of the street, I glanced out onto the road and saw a huge black thing roar by.  With my free hand, I rubbed my eyes.  What had I seen?  Several more followed, though they were not of the same shape and size as the massive black one.  Childish instinct kicked in and caused me to seize her hand with a tighter grip.  She looked down at me.  "It's all right, you know...just stay on the cross-walk and hold my hand."  I blinked.  "They're just cars, dear."  Cars?  Cars?  What were cars?  There was something wrong...this wasn't 1881...her attire was entirely inappropriate; she wore blue trousers and a long black coat that went down to the middle of her thighs.  A woman wearing trousers?  My faithful reader, I know it does sound absurd, but it was true; these huge roaring contraptions blazing down the street at high speed and a woman in trousers do exist.  

I quickly noticed that she was not the only one; many other women on the streets were wearing trousers...  It was extremely revealing and—at least, I thought—socially unacceptable.  I was the only one who thought so... From what I could tell, it was the height of fashion in the era.  Shaking off these weird feelings, I held her hand tightly and crossed the street, trembling.  At that moment I felt like a child; scared and small…not at all like the man I once was.  Deep inside I was curious as to how the mechanisms actually worked, but my fear and instinct was a larger part of my person at that moment.

After about fifteen minutes of this mechanical nightmare, we were in front of a rather modern building.  "We're home!" she said eagerly while she opened the door.  Two flights of stairs later, she unlocked a door and I stepped into the "home" and glanced around it.  A strange black screen was in front of some leather sofas, and we moved into a kitchen with many odd objects on the countertops.  I was no longer afraid; I was curious.  Everything worked, apparently, but _how?_  To the inventor or mechanic, nothing could be more fascinating. 

I reached out to touch a greyish object about the length of my hand to the middle of my forearm, when her voice broke me from my trance of desire for knowledge.  "Darling, your father's in the study.  He wants to see you…you miss him, don't you?"  I paused for a minute, speechless.  

"Yes," I said at last.  She looked me over very carefully.  There was something in her eyes that was alarmingly familiar.  Our eyes locked for what seemed like an eternity, but, as I was soon to learn, eternity is a very long time…far too long for even this lengthy moment of unease.  Nervous, I broke eye contact and proceeded to the door she indicated.  It was open slightly, and I easily slipped through the crack.  

The room was complete and utter chaos.  Strange ringing noises emitted from grey-white objects on cluttered shelves.  Piles of paper rose above the maple desk in a haphazard manner.  A screen similar to the one in the first room almost—but not quite—cloaked the man's face from view.  Messy dark hair fell to the middle of his forehead.  Slanted, thin brows turned upward in confusion, frustration, and worry.  Beneath them were two bright blue eyes that at once expressed the tenderness of a father and the weariness of a man who has been working for hours on end.  His head snapped up as he spied me.  "Well, hello," he said, grinning tiredly.  After pressing some buttons on the weird plastic objects on his desk, there was total silence.  "I know daddy hasn't been home, and I'm sorry…but I do love you."

I blinked.  The one part of my life I had never had; a father.  I had never really missed him.  After all, how can one miss a man one does not even know?  At that moment, hearing him say "I do love you" triggered an emotional reaction within me.  Something snapped.  Realising that I had missed him all of my life more than I could possibly understand and then having the gap filled was so utterly surprising and shocking that I could do nothing but fling myself into his arms and reply, "I love you too."

He was a bit shocked.  "I haven't been away for that long, now, have I?  I have some bad news…I have to leave again.  Tonight."  A part of me would leave.  "I'll be back within the week.  I have to visit those men in New York again."

I stayed silent.

"Take care of your mother, will you?"  My head jerked up.  He sighed.  "Just watch for her.  She's depending on you."  I looked at him strangely.  What did he mean?  "She loves you more than anything, and if something were to happen…anything at all…I…why am I telling you this?  Your little mind isn't ready for this sort of thing…"  He hugged me close and then released me. 

I jumped down from his lap and hastily left the room, where she was awaiting me.  There was something odd…from his speech, from his manner, from her eyes, I could tell.  Not everything is what it seems, at first.  To see it all, you have to look past the reflection of the truth and see the truth.  After all, reflections are the reverse of reality.

_((Author's note: I am starting to weird myself out…the plot is developing in my mind, and the mother plays a very important part.  I didn't mean for the moment between Erik and the father to be so sappy, but it just came out that way…*shrugs* The little bit at the end is huge; foreshadowing is fun!  Please review.))_


	5. The Dancer

**Disclaimer**: I own Erik's mother, Erik's "body," Meg's "body," and the father.  Though that could change…

**Author's notes**: I feel loved.  I can't thank you all enough for your kindness.  For four chapters, thirty-one reviews is a lot for me.  ^-^

**Phantom Aria,** what kind of authoress would I be if I didn't make you cry?  Not a very good one...my aim with drama and romance is to bring tears to my readers' eyes.  And now that I know my muse's identity, I think things will be better...

**Deirdre of the Sorrows**, maybe he is, maybe he isn't, but he's not a major part of the plot, regardless of that.  As to your third section... '_If you like piña coladas' _...Wait…wrong song…I meant to play the dull classical music. *turns on "_The Four Seasons_" and I DON'T mean the hotel*  The phone.  While we're on the subject of kitchen appliances…this one time when I was making cookies, I put in one too many cups of flour and the flour flew out of the mixer and into the blender.  I'm talented.

**Bubonic Woodchuck**, fwee, you like sappy.  I'm turning into a clichéd romance writer. *shuddershudder*

**Daroga's Rainy Daae**, I, too, especially loved the last paragraph...and it's probably the most important one I've written so far.  You'll see why.

**Lavendar**, he doesn't quite do something of that magnitude, but portable telephones are fun…until everyone's favourite ballerina interrupts… I'm not too sure we'll see how the rest of the children fare, because it's all told from Erik's POV, but they may or may not have cameos in the next chapter.

**Gaia Angelus**, yay!  I finally did some satisfactory description. *is now proud*  She's important, though I'm toying with her own personal background and plot twist(s)…which you know about, don't tell…shh!! ^_^

"The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day. Never lose a holy curiosity."

_~Albert Einstein_

"_Élan Vital_" by The Phantom Parisienne

Chapter Four: The Dancer

I speak of reflections, because at that very moment, that is what I saw.  My reflection.  I was not ugly, no, far from it!  I was beginning to believe that this was the closest to heaven that my poor, battered soul would ever be come.  My hair was similar to my "father's", though a bit thicker. My eyes possessed the same deep dark quality that my "mother's" had.  They had a strange sort of depth similar to hers, yet different in its own way.  It was the kind of depth that the eyes of the viscount, Christine, and Nadir had had.    Far inside them there was something hidden and mysterious that even I could not find, and I suspected that she knew that it was there. I suspected that she was not who she appeared to be, either…though it was quite possible that my paranoia was brought on by the onset of sudden events.

The mirror was hung on the wall in a decorative manner, and I looked up at it, as I was quite short.  Mirrors are painful and dangerous objects, capable of illusion, magic, and torture when placed in the right hands.  _My hands_. Carefully I pulled the ottoman from the leather chair to the wall and, making sure that no-one was watching, removed the mirror from its hook.  If I had to wait a day to see the trio again and to discover the meaning behind it all, I decided that I would make the best of it…

Fifteen minutes later, an electronic "ringing" sound jolted me from my concentrated state.  It continued for several seconds before the "mother" dashed into the room and picked up the aforementioned greyish object, pressed a few buttons, and lifted it to her ear.  "Hullo?  Oh, yes…she left early?  She fell asleep on the job?  Perhaps she's ill…?  I wonder why…something wrong with her?  _French_?  No, she's taking lessons but she's not very good at it…not like that…oh, dear…I'll speak with her when she gets home."  She took it away from her ear, pressed another button, and set it back down on the table.  "Your sister had a hard day at work…when she comes home, be nice to her…" She frowned and began to walk away before spotting the mirror.  Under her breath she muttered, "I don't know what got into her!"  _What had just happened_?  What sort of odd method of communication did she just use? I had to know.  "Darling, why did you take the mirror from the wall?"  She picked it up off of the table and I barely held myself back from bursting out in French.  "Silly of you," she said as she hung it back up and put the ottoman back in front of the chair.  "Now stay out of trouble while I finish cooking dinner!"  "Mother" retreated into the kitchen.

I picked up the object and squinted at it.  Twelve uniformly-shaped buttons were arranged in a rectangle: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,  * Tone, 0 Oper., and #.  Two at the top were labelled "Talk" and "Off."  What was this thing?  I flipped it over in my now-clumsy hands and easily removed the plastic panel.  Two small cylinders with fine print and a one large word printed across—Energizer—lay in the little crevice between two pieces of metal: a spring and a flat pieces.  I wedged the "Energizer" out and examined it carefully.  It seemed to be some source of energy, from what I could tell, and from the name's base word.  

The door tentatively opened.  A rather short girl with blonde hair in an upswept bun tiptoed inside, and then closed the door silently.  "Un rêve…un rêve…*" Her mumbled French caught my attention.  My eyes looked straight into her green ones.  They had _depth_.  One could tumble into them and be lost forever and ever…  Inside, there was a trapped soul, a soul that didn't belong where it was.  There was the spirit of a girl who wanted more than anything to be free…to dance.  The world called that spirit by a name: Meg Giry.  

"C'est réalité**," I said, our eyes still locked.  Although my old physicality had died, my voice's haunting quality had lived on…Christine, Nadir, and M. le Vicomte had recognised it too.  

For my English readers, I shall keep the French to a minimum and translate for you.  She said quite plainly, "No, no, no!  It cannot be true…it is just a nightmare, and I shall awaken very soon!  But…don't I know you?  Don't I know those eyes of yours…?"

"Mlle., please…you shall call me 'monsieur' and nothing more.  Remain quiet…she might hear us."  I kept my voice a dead, hushed whisper.

"She? " she echoed strangely, and a bit too loudly.

"Our mother," I replied wearily, knowing that her childish innocence and character were going through a terrible strain.  An explanation was due…but I did not have a proper one.  What was I supposed to say?  _Oh, dear, I suppose that we've been thrown into another era, switched places with some children, and now have no idea where the hell their souls have gone?  Hell, probably, but that's beside the point…the point is that we're doomed…there's no way out of this and I fear that we'll be put into some sort of facility for the insane if we so much as attempt to explain our dilemma to a real person who actually lives here…_  Don't be ridiculous!  Of course I could not say that to her…!  The poor child was already frightened half to death…!  A simple explanation would be best, but I'll be damned if I could think of a satisfactory one.

"What?"  She stared at me with infinite curiosity that, like the dark green well in her eyes, was endless.  "Please, do not lie to me."

"I am not lying…it is the simple, painful, and plain truth.  We can do nothing, mademoiselle."  She sat on the leather chair, almost in a faint.  

"Are you the phantom?  The opera's phantom? "  she asked suddenly, obviously having realised the strange presence in my eyes.  

I said nothing.

"Christine talked about you…Maman still talks about you…everyone does…but what has happened?  Surely you, the opera ghost, must know?"  She was shaking, in fear of me.  Me, a two-year-old boy just barely out of diapers…I see nothing to fear…

"I do…but it is far more complicated than you can imagine…you must remain quiet while I explain…silent, in fact."

She nodded.

"It began when I died…I simply awoke here and found Mlle Daaé— ,"  the mention of her name made me tremble momentarily "—Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny, and a Persian gentleman, an acquaintance of mine whom you may or may not know.  Monsieur Khan?"

She shook her head.  

"He is the Persian gentleman that you see at the Opéra!" I said between clenched teeth.  "The especially superstitious staffs of the Opéra are afraid of him..."

"Oh!  Him!"  she exclaimed, yet again too loud and sudden.

"Shhh…  Be silent!" I commanded.

She covered her mouth absentmindedly with her hand and her eyes widened as she nodded slowly.

"Now, is there a safe place to talk where we can speak without being overheard?" I asked calmly.

Mlle. Giry pointed to a door.  What was behind it, I knew not, but I prayed—or should I say hoped?  I do not believe in God, no, not after what has happened to me—that no-one would find us.

It was down the hallway, and before that door and to the left was the kitchen.  To make it past "Mother" without being spotted would be quite a feat, but I was confident that if her back was turned, if only for a split second, we could make our break to freedom.

She was afraid.  She was afraid of what she didn't know, she was afraid of everything she had never seen before.  No, she did not have the childish curiosity that she should have in a situation such as this...she trembled in fear of being caught, she trembled in fear of not knowing, and she was ignorant.  Mlle. Giry, above all, was terrified of me.  What ballet rat in her right mind would not be?  They lived in constant fear of me, and my wicked tricks.  I was the omnipresent devil in the opera, and every single superstitious precaution had to be taken to prevent me from committing more "evil deeds."  I did not find that a chandelier accidentally dropping was an "evil deed" by definition.  It was merely an "accident."

Mlle. Giry paused.  I slowly crept across the carpet, careful not to make a single sound that might alert either of the two to our presence.  She tentatively followed.

((_Author's note: Doesn't this picture just make you giggle?  I know it does make me giggle. *giggles insanely* Phantom Aria, it's not because of my muse...^^; Though he's been co-operating now that I know his true identity_.))

My small feet made no sound on the thick carpet, but I feared that Mlle. Giry's larger, heavier boots might.  So, I stepped as lightly and slowly as I could, praying that she would follow my example, knowing that I looked a complete fool walking in such a manner.  Regardless, I kept my silent gait mechanically focused and slipped past the open kitchen door without being spotted.  Shaking uncontrollably, she attempted to follow.  Half-way to my side of the door, she started running.  I don't know why; her boots made thumping noises on the ground that were magnified one-hundred-fold by my nervousness and anxiousness.  She did not stop running until she got into the indicated room.  Breathing heavily, she whispered, "I think it's safe in here, monsieur."

Still, I had the sinking feeling that _someone _had heard, and that that _someone _had a grasp on the situation like I had prayed that no-one unaffected by it would.  That _someone _had to be found.

((_Author's notes: French translations:_

_* "A dream...a dream."_

_** "It's reality."_

_Please review!))_


	6. Dreams no mortal ever dreamed before

**Disclaimer**: These disclaimers of mine could get ridiculously complicated if I really went into the theory of everyone's second selves, so I'm going to let you figure it out. You know, as usual, that the Phantom characters's souls ARE NOT mine...etc., etc., etc., and so forth! *last few lines sung, à la Yul Brenner* *sincerely hopes that someone actually knows what she's referring to*

REVIEWERS! E!!  Wow...this is a record amount of reviews in between two chapters, and a small sort of prize will go the fiftieth reviewer...most likely a little request to be put into the story.  Keep in mind that I will not switch the plot around; maybe a small reference to a personal joke or note...and an author's note and  a chapter dedicated to you.  The same will go to (hopefully) my one-hundredth reviewer, if I ever get there.  

**Christine Persephone**, thank you for all of your reviews.  They rather make me smile, because I greatly respect you as an authoress and loved reading "_Regina Perditorum_." *is, in fact, in the middle of rereading it once again* That RP sounds terribly interesting.  Christine being frightened by a double-decker bus...an absolutely _priceless_ picture.  :D :D :D

**Phantom Aria**, give Erik a hug for me.  Goodness knows he needs one.

**Bubonic Woodchuck**, isn't mini-Erik absolutely ADORABLE?  The cuteness is rather sickening, though, and I truly must admit it.

**Gaia Angelus**, I'm a sucker for quotes.  I read quote books as if my life depended on it.

**BroadwayStar77**, yes it would be funny to be an onlooker in the park. :D

**Deirdre of the Sorrows**, yes, they all did die...elaboration on that coming up soon.

**The Countess**, S.R.P.'s locked in my head, and she says thank you...and she wants credit for half of the story. -.- 

**Daroga's Rainy Daae**, yes, Meg is approximately around sixteen or seventeen. Aww...thank you!  I'll try to continue as best I can.

**La Pamplemousse**, thankie! ^^ Here's the update you wanted...and you're on the official SOAP website, btw.

Am I so totally beyond sanity and actual normal quotes that I really must quote Edgar Allan Poe?  If you don't get the reference, shame on you.  It's in my bio.

"_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,_

_Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dreamed before."_

_~Edgar Allan Poe_, The Raven

_________________

"_Élan Vital_" by The Phantom Parisienne

Chapter Five: 'Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dreamed before'

The sinking feeling that someone had overheard us weighted my heart and I began to dread the every passing minute, knowing that another minute of agonising pain, impatience, and fear was on the horizon.  Mlle. Giry was correct, though.  The room was empty.  Well...not quite empty.  The walls were covered in shiny sheets of paper depicting people dressed in clothing that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.  Some of them seemed to be playing strange instruments, and others simply posing.  Books were spread across the floor in a haphazard manner, making it nearly impossible to step anywhere in the room without stepping on some paperback novel.

She uncomfortably situated herself on the bed; an unmade thing covered in irregularly shaped pillows and pink sheets.  I crossed my arms in my usual elegant position, but realised that my imposing manner was entirely wasted; its effect was lost in a child's body.  Poor Mlle. Giry was quite close to tears.  For what reason, I could not even begin to imagine.  Perhaps it was her delicate character and being that were taking the mental and emotional strain in a bad way...?  "Do not cry, child"—I am aware that this sseems terribly ironic to you, my dear reader—"I shall sort it out."  That was a complete lie.  I had no idea how to get out of this mess, let alone how it all began!  I only said it to stop her from bursting into tears, which she did anyway.  I bit back an expletive.

"Monsieur le Fantôme, do you know what happened before we came here?"  She rubbed her eyes vigorously.  "Why did it—"

"Shh...do not ask so many questions that are, for now, unanswerable."  Awkwardly, my arms uncrossed themselves and my hands began to stroke her hair back from her face in a desire to calm her, in a strange and fatherly manner that was quite foreign to me.  

"So you don't know?"  Mlle. Giry lifted her head from her hands and stared. 

I couldn't lie.  I simply couldn't bring myself to tell her that I did.  Her poor, childish countenance needed the reassurance that we would find out the source of the mix-up, but I could not and would not give it to her.  "Unfortunately, no. All that I know is that something happened that caused us to take the place of some children's bodies...other than that, it's a complete and total mystery."  I took a deep breath.  "What happened before you awoke here...I mean to say, what sort of situation were you in?"

She stared straight at me and right into my eyes, searching them for answers.  Her green eyes, filled with tears, turned away after a split second.  "I believe that you already know the answer to that question."  I did.  She had died...just the same as everyone else had.  There was something in our fates; our fates entwining, that had caused a problem with our deaths.  Death was like a straight line...perfectly straight, but drawn by a human hand.  A human hand is capable of error, and straight lines are very difficult to draw with precision.  The hand had twitched with our deaths; a jolt in the line had crossed with the lines of the lives of the children.  Life, too, was a line; though it was, more often than not, drawn with bumps and jolts.  One question remained to be answered; why were our lives and deaths drawn on the same paper as the lives and deaths of the children?  I did not express that opinion to Mlle. Giry, because she was too hysterical to understand anything on that scale of emotional magnitude and eloquence at the moment...

"Yes, mademoiselle, I do."  I sighed.  "Please try to be slightly more quiet, I do not want her overhearing—"

"It's time for supper, darlings!  And Sarah, I need to talk to you about what happened at work today.  Mr. Townsend down at the office said that you acted a bit strange...I heard you come into the flat, so don't pretend you're not here.  If you've had a bad day you know you can always talk to me about it," her voice called merrily—and unfortunately in English—from the kitchen.

((_Author's note: *hopes that everyone is clever enough to realise the symbolism of naming her Sarah* E!  Sarah-Meg!  Don't berate me for not naming Christine Sarah._))

Mlle. Giry looked at me.  I could see my reflection in her eyes, and it was a very, very eerie feeling that raced down my spine and caused me to shiver.  "What did she say?"

"She wants us to go eat, and she says she wants to talk to you...but there is a minor problem, mademoiselle.  Do you speak English?"

"Oh, no..."  She sobbed.  "What are we supposed to do?"

"Remain quiet.  Not a single sound."  I cleared my throat.  "Mama?"

"Yes, dear?" she said over the clanking of the pots and pans.

"Sarah said that she felt sick."  I hoped that that did not sound too eloquent for a child.

"Oh?  In that case, come down for dinner and let your sister be.  Don't bother her; you know it makes her angry.  Perhaps her illness is what made her day at work so bad?  Hm..."  I mentally cursed for having stepped outside of the character I was meant to portray. Improvisation is terribly difficult if you don't know the rôle.

"Yes, Mama."  I looked back at Sarah-Meg. 

((_Author's note: I rather like how that sounds. *note: is hyper*_))

"What did you just say?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"I told her that you were ill...and now I must leave.  Do not leave this room.  Do not speak at all.  Not a single word!"  I brought my finger to my lips.  

She nodded, still trembly.

I hastily exited the room, not wanting to be in her company for reasons I could not even begin to fathom the origins of.  I simply didn't like being in her presence.  Her fear was contagious.  If the four of us—Christine, M. le Vicomte, Nadir, and myself—were flickering candles in a dark room, Mlle. Giry was the wind the occasionally blew through and threatened to extinguish us.   In the dark, the four of us dreamed dreams no mortal ever dreamed before, to quote Poe.  So many dark fantasies roamed our mind, each vying for the honour of being the top explanation for the series of terrible events.

Calmly I walked into the kitchen and was greeted by a very strong aroma.  "Mother" was standing over a glass dish, smiling.  "Is your sister feeling any better?"

"Err—" I paused.  "No, Mama.  She feels sick, still."  I swallowed.  

"Well then, I shall just have to go speak with her myself, then."

"No!"  I shouted, rather suddenly and to her, very unexpectedly.

"What did you just say?"  Her voice was filled with curiosity and fear. 

"She wants to be alone," I said quietly.

"Are you feeling all right?  I'm beginning to think that Sarah is not the only one here who is ill, darling..."  She put her hand on my forehead.  Her hand felt normal against my skin, not the usual warmth that came from my cold flesh.  "Hm.  You seem well enough.  But I do wonder what's gotten into your sister..."  "Mother" sighed.

I didn't like this.  It wasn't natural.  Everything wrong.  I had the sinking feeling that if things were happening in their usual progression, and that the lines could be erased and redrawn, I would be in Hell.  Of course, I do have an expansive imagination...  Perhaps this, this world was just really someone's imagination?  We were someone's dolls, and they pushed us around as they pleased.  It was a cruel world.  It was a cruel fate.  But everything depends on fate, and it is always as it was originally meant to be.  It was all meant to happen...the hand was fated to draw our life-lines improperly...it was all correct in its terrible way.  And for that reason, I feared what would happen.

((_Author's notes: Short chapter, I know...don't kill meh.  I've been prepping for school and it's been rainy outside.  All week.  Which seems to deflate my writing ability in a rather unusual manner.  Please review_!))


	7. Bath Time

**Disclaimer**: See previous chapter.  I just don't want to go into detail about it all...

**Author's notes**:  Congratulations to **Deirdre of the Sorrows** on having been the 50th reviewer!  Leave a little note in your review about a little something you'd like put into the story.  A sequel would be impossible, I'm afraid, considering the ending that's planned.  And it's a sad ending...much warning goes to you all.  Your concern for the children's souls is not in vain...but you'll find out soon, I hope.

**Gaia Angelus**, I just love having Meg and Erik as brother and sister.  It makes me so incredibly _happy_.  Which brings me to the topic of my general happiness.  I'm in a rather good mood...the weather is beautiful...(I love wet, cold weather)...and this is coming along quite nicely.

**BroadwayStar77**, thank you! ^^

**Phantom Aria,** if you found the Poe reference nice, prepare to cry at this one.

**La Pamplemousse**, I can't dance either without falling on my rear.  Poe is wonderful.  And Meg's death?  I thought about it.  I really did.  And my poor little uncreative mind couldn't really imagine anything _suitable_.  So what I'm doing is leaving it to your imagination.  Your hypothesis is the correct one as far as I'm concerned.  

**Deirdre of the Sorrows**, congratulations! ^^ See above.

**Feya,** THE SUSPENSE IS BUILDING!  I'm back at school, so updates will be fewer.  And thank you so much.

**The Countess**, fweeeeeee!  I'm rather fond of the name Sarah-Meg myself.  I need to name something Sarah-Meg very compulsively for little or no reason.  I'll find _something_.  *snatches the cheese* This is Sarah-Meg the Cheese™!

**Christine Persephone**, thanks for your reviews.  Poor Christine and Meg in your RP...would be very interesting if they met Sarah Brightman, Michael Crawford, Steve Barton, and the rest of the OLC...*laughs* Very amusing.  Now I'm happy...happier than earlier.  I'm in a rather permanent good mood now. :D :D :D  And I do so love reading about Ellara...I just finished re-reading "_Regina Perditorum_" (again) and that increased my good mood.  Happiness is spreading...-.-  Did you know that you reviewed twice? As the review hog that I am, I'm being evil and not deleting the anonymous one. Heh.

**Daroga's Rainy Daae**, I did notice that she does like to cry.  But who doesn't like a teary ballerina?  Especially one named Sarah-Meg.  That name makes me perpetually happy.  Erik is still cute...did you see his Photoshop portrait?  Tis on my profile.  SHAMELESS SELF ADVERTISEMENT!!

Now my quotes are just becoming _warped_.

"_Rubber Ducky, you're the one,_

_You make bathtime lots of fun!"_

_~Sesame Street_, Rubber Ducky

"_Élan Vital_" by The Phantom Parisienne

Chapter Six: Bath Time

I noticed a table set for four diners, yet the "mother" and I were the only ones present in the kitchen.  "Where's papa?" I asked, now confident with my imitation of the boy.

"He's working, I'm afraid.  Come, sit and have dinner."  She smiled serenely.  The look was as if it was simply wrong for her face.  She had one of those faces that seemed as if it were meant to express a negative emotion.  The grin was still pleasant, though it did not fit.  It struck me then that she loved_ me_.  Not me-Erik, but me-the-boy.  She loved the boy.  She loved the boy as every parent should love his or her child.  It then dawned upon me what I had missed as a child.  Love.  All of it was denied, and I had now two parents who did not even know _how_ to show cruelty to a small child.  I was taking advantage of the situation.  I was stealing some poor child's parents.  I was robbing him of love.  And I just then began to feel remorse.  How cruel was I to not sense this earlier?  I nearly ripped myself from the chair she had just indicated me to sit on while these thoughts were crossing my mind and bolted, only to realise too late that I could not do so without arousing her attention.

I trembled fearfully.

She looked down the hallway curiously.  "I really must speak to Sarah..." "Mother" muttered.  "She's probably just going through some teenage phase...I'll get it out of her yet."  With a sudden change in tone, she beamed at me.  "Here's your dinner."   Whistling a rather lilting melody that seemed slightly familiar but still foreign, she carefully spooned a bit of the yellow-tan potato-ey mess from the glass pan onto my rather small plate.  I wasn't hungry.  At all.  I looked up at her.  

((_Author's note: It's not hard to guess what song she's whistling.  Although this is Leroux based, I couldn't resist._))

"Mama, I not hung-wy."

"Oh, dear, you have to eat to grow.  If you don't want it _all_, I won't make you eat it all, but you should at least have a bit.  To make your father happy."  She wheedled me, and I could not really resist.  I simply could not refuse her, who felt so much love and therefore was a more admirable person than I had ever known.  I reached for my fork and _almost_ picked it up in the usual manner, but realised with a jolt that I had a rôle to play...and an actor must never fall out of character.  The whole world was my stage, and the fork was simply another prop that required handling appropriate to my rôle.  I clumsily grasped it in my right...or should I use left?  Oh, no...  I glanced at "Mother," who was peacefully stirring up something else with her _right_ hand.  Nervous, I grasped it in my right hand...and began to push the food around my plate, staring into it as if I would somehow find the answer.

I stared. 

And I stared some more.

And I would have kept on staring until "Mother" began to walk down the hall.  "Sarah, are you quite all right?  Do you want an aspirin?"

"Mmph," came the muffled reply: a half-sob half-statement with about as much clarity as the sky of a wet September day.  I very nearly put my head on the table in a gesture of accepted defeat...by whom, I could not even tell. Someone no doubt found this all very amusing... I was being laughed at!  My conscience...my conscience found this punishment suitable to my sins and murderous deeds in my past life!  I rubbed my temples, aggravated.  My conscience was rather heavy, to put it bluntly.  My conscience was mocking me.

"Dear, please do _speak_ to me.  I can't understand when you mumble.  It's very unbecoming."

There was absolute silence for a moment as I paused the circular motion of my hand in order to listen to her properly.  I could well imagine what Mlle. Giry was going through.  Fortunately I was fluent in English, but I doubted very much whether she had even heard a word of English in her life before this day.  A muffled sob, barely audible, emitted from "Sarah"'s room.  I sighed and "Mother" furrowed her brow in anger.

"Are you hiding from me?" the "mother" demanded.  "I'm now quite honestly furious with you and I think that this whole mess is _very_ childish."  There was no reply.  It's not as if I was _expecting_ one, but the "mother" had obviously anticipated a loud outburst in the youthful fashion that was probably typical in the daily interaction between the two females.  "Speak to me, Sarah!  If you do not, then I will just have to ignore you when you finally _do_ decide to make contact with the outside world!"  Now furious, she stormed back into the kitchen.  Her hair once shiny (though I still stand by the opinion that its cause may have been greasiness) was still slightly so, but no longer the feature one first noticed about it.  Now, it was flying everywhere in a wild rage.  It was, oddly, a gauge of her temper.

She smiled at me, keeping her composure in front of me and taming her temper.  She reminded me of myself...struggling inwardly to maintain a rational state of mind and to keep from going into a rage.  Perhaps it was just a cruel twist of fate that I had to be "related" to a woman who resembled me temperamentally if not physically?  "Finish your dinner and then I'll give you a bath, dear."

A...a bath?  Had I heard her properly?  Did she just say she wanted to bathe me?  There are points in the play when an actor must take action...the part is simply too intricate.  I was in no way willing to be _bathed_ by a complete and total stranger.  It seemed rather ironic, seeing as I was her son...though only in physicality and _not _in my mind.  I refused.  Flat out, I said no.

"No, mama!"  

"Oh, don't be silly.  You have to get clean, darling," she clanged some of the pots and pans in a chrome sink and began to scrub them.  "Every little boy wants to stay out of the tub forever, but I can't let that happen.  I don't want you all dirty, do I?"  She smiled and pushed some hair away from her face with her wrist rather than her hand, which was now soapy and wet.

"But...I dun wan-ta take a bath!"  I whined.  "Pwease?"

"Listen, young man," she said, adopting a slightly more stern tone of voice, "you must take a bath tonight before you go to bed."

"I dun wan-ta!  Mama...no bath?"  I pleaded.

"Nonsense.  You're going to get nice and clean tonight, dear.  Just finish your dinner and I'll go draw the bath."  She smoothed my hair and tripped out of the room.  Her shoe caught on the small indentation between the tile and she moved sideways rather suddenly.  Grace was non-existent for her, it seemed.  I pushed the food around my plate some more.  I didn't really want it.  I had never hungered for food...I had always had an insatiable thirst for power.  And this little yellow bit of _something _on my plate didn't really seem all that powerful.  I scowled at it and rearranged it on the plate, making it appear as if I had eaten at least a little bit.

((_Author's note: How many of you did this as a child?  Be honest, now.  Tell the truth._))

I had to get out.  I couldn't live like this.  I had to be free...I had to see Christine, and I had to be away from the "mother."  

"Mlle. Giry?" I whispered tentatively as I silently crept toward the door of the room.  "It's me...are you in there?"

"Yes," she whispered.  "I want to go...I can't understand what she says and she sounds very angry..."

"She's...not angry," I lied.  "Just open the door," I muttered, because it was locked and also because if it _weren't_ I was a bit too short to open it anyway.  She did as asked.  The sound of rushing water filled my ears.  I assumed it was the bath, though Sarah-Meg moved closer to me instinctively.  Her timidity was beginning to annoy me.  "Now, we're going to exit through the way we entered, and we're going to find some way to locate the others...I just hope that they have not left the park."

"If they did, what will we do, monsieur?  Where will we stay?" I began to lead her to the door, my fingers just barely in hers.  I tried to seem as polite and fatherly as possible, but it was difficult to remain calm with her incessant worried chatter and the sound of the water beating in my ears.  

"I don't know, mademoiselle.  We'll manage somehow." I furrowed my brow and pointed to the door-knob.  "Open that, _s'il vous plaît_."

"Of course, monsieur."  She wiped some tears away, and the black makeup that lined her eyes smudged fearfully across her sweater and face.  Sarah-Meg didn't notice, nor did I have the heart to point it out to her.

"_Merci_."

_((Author's note: Yes, Meg is a crybaby.  And she doesn't wear waterproof mascara, either. XD XD  For reasons beyond my comprehension, I rather like the last bit.  The door bit...it makes me very happy…poor Erik can't reach the door-knob!_

_Please review!))_


	8. London, England

**Disclaimer**: Theory, again.  If you've read the other chapters, you know that all ownership is subject to change.

**Author's notes**: WOW!  Reviewers!  Dahling reviewers...*grins* This is spectacular.  Thank you all so much for your support!  I think I'll hit one-hundred, don't you?

And **Deirdre of the Sorrows,** the ALW musical is being put in...besides, it does take place in London, if you didn't suspect it earlier.  I'll make the setting a bit clearer based on the descriptions of the streets and such.  But congratulations anyway!

**Phantom Aria**, thank you.  I try to make Erik's emotions and thoughts seem as realistic and true to his character as is possible.  Yes...we pity Meg.  I also do think that their bodies and new physicalities provide them the experience to interact and bond in a way that would not be possible if they were in their real bodies in 1881.

**La Pamplemousse**, who hasn't?  Door-knob Bit™ rocks, btw.  Rubber Ducky!  Love that song; childish fetishes are so much fun.

**Daroga's Rainy Daae**, that's Door-knob Bit™!  With a ™!  And I'm glad that I can achieve the ability to write a character so that they're dislikable in a way that shows I vividly describe her accurately.  Which makes me rather happy. : )   : )

**deciet4love,** thank you!  I really have no idea where the inspiration came from...it just...did.

**Gaia Angelus**, Rubber Ducky forever!  I'm glad I'm getting Erik correct...

**Christine Persephone**, yes.  Apparently FF.net is kind to me...and rather silly and odd. *shrugs*   The age difference is rather cute...*sappy grin*

**Bubonic Woodchuck**, keep in mind that I'm not the one who killed you.  That was my muse who inspired me to write it.

**Deirdre of the Sorrows,** yes...Erik really can't take too much of it, can he?  And congratulations again. 

**BroadwayStar77**, thanks.

**tattered sparrow**, that is spelled correctly, and he is very huggable.  *loves mini-Erik*

**PhantomAngel22**, thank you for your review.  Poor Raoul.

**The Countess**, Sarah-Meg™ the Cheese is rather wonderful...and they live in London, in case you didn't realise..which apparently you didn't.  I'll make it clearer.

"_This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, _

_This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, _

_This other Eden, demi-paradise, _

_This fortress built by Nature for herself _

_Against infection and the hand of war, _

_This happy breed of men, this little world, _

_This precious stone set in the silver sea, _

_Which serves it in the office of a wall _

_Or as a moat defensive to a house, _

_Against the envy of less happier lands,-- _

_This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England_."

_~William Shakespeare_, "King Richard III", _Act II Scene I._

"_The monster London laugh at me."_

_~Abraham Cowley, _Of Solitude_, xi._

((_Double quote fix for Phantom Aria and Gaia Angelus. ;-)_ ))

"_Élan Vital_" by The Phantom Parisienne

Chapter Seven: London, England

Mlle. Giry carefully shut the door behind us and it clicked; the lock was closed and in place.  The thought then occurred to me what "Father" had said earlier: "She loves you more than anything, and if something were to happen...anything at all..."   And in only moments she would find Sarah-Meg and myself gone.  I felt every bit the monster I had always been believed to be; I was, quite literally, depriving her of her child.  As these thoughts hit me I stood perfectly still, staring straight into the white wall, not really seeing my physical surroundings, but completely lost in my thoughts and memories.   It was Mlle. Giry's wavering voice that returned me to my physical being.

"M-monsieur?  Where is the park?"  She looked down the hall-way.  "What if she comes looking for us?  What will we do?" Her first question I could easily answer, but the others were questions that I could not reassure her truthfully about without giving them some thought.

"Little Meg Giry"—do not laugh, dear reader—"Follow me to the park; we must go in great haste, for if we do she will not find us.  If she does, you are to remain absolutely silent."  I was not aware of it at the time, but the statement seemed to her more of a command than a request.   I read it plainly on her tear- and make-up-stained face and in her perpetually deep, hollow eyes.  She nodded.  It was evident that her child-like countenance had survived the mysterious "reincarnation" and was flourishing here like a plant newly returned to its home-soil.   She was afraid of me and who I once was, and these unidentifiable surroundings only multiplied her fear.

I glanced around also before descending the stair-case to the lobby of the building.  Mlle. Giry trailed me as a faithful dog would her master as I proceeded to the door.  Frustrated once again that the simplest of tasks was impossible, I pointed to it and scowled.   She chuckled a bit through her splotchy face and salty tears.  Evidently she was amused, and it was a pleasant change from the female-behaviour that had wreaked havoc upstairs.  Sarah-Meg easily reached over my head and pushed it open.  "Merci," I grumbled as I went outside.   Unbearably tall men flooded the streets, which were once very peaceful and rather quiet.  

I cannot even begin to explain how frightening it is to be so much smaller than the surrounding population when one is used to being well over six feet.  I had never really felt _small _as a child in my real life; I had always been able to wrap Mlle. Perrault and my mother around my little finger.   I controlled everything.  Or at least that's what I thought.  I believed that I held the power in my first years, and that was what truly counted.  Now, in a foreign country, in a foreign city, in a foreign body, and with all of these giants everywhere, towering upon me, I was terrified.

And though I wore a physical mask in my previous body, the mask I wore that day was more important and affecting than any mask I had ever worn.  I wore a mask that concealed my emotions to Mlle. Giry and the entire world.  Behind it lay sorrow, confusion, and fright.   Above it was docility and tranquillity.  I don't think anyone even looked at me long enough to try to glance behind the mask, save for Mlle. Giry, who was ignorant of everything save finding a way out of the situation.  

"I know this may sound rather odd, monsieur...but where are we, exactly?"  The accents of the populace pointed me toward England, and the hustle and bustle of the city life pinpointed our location to London.  France was across the English Channel; my home was so far.   And yet, I knew if I returned, it wouldn't be the same.  Something totally wrong was in the air.  Some strange change was there, and I suspected it was time.

I didn't reply to her, but kept on forcing myself through the waves of oncoming businessmen.  A piece of paper flew up into my face, probably scraped from the ground by a man's shoe and blown into my face by the wind.  I clawed at it and pulled it off.   I skimmed it briefly and looked up in surprise.  It read as follows:

"_The Phantom of the Opera -- John Owen-Jones_

_Christine Daaé -- Celia Graham _

_Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny -- Niklas Andersen_

_Carlotta Giudicelli -- Nan Christie_".

I froze.  I needed not to read a single word more.  What on earth was this...this...piece of paper?  I cast it away from me and the wind carried it off...I had lost it.  A dire mistake, I was soon to realise. 

She tapped my head, which I found rather annoying.  "What was that?" she questioned.  

"Oh...nothing..."  I was still curious.  It seemed to be a sort of cast list...perhaps for a play.  I personally had never found my life interesting enough to be a play.  I had never even thought about the possibility!  The man who played me was doubtless a handsome person and wore massive quantities of stage makeup to play me on the stage, I thought bitterly.   How unfair...just like life.  "Nothing at all."

I didn't turn back, but simply kept walking, hoping that no more papers would fly in the general of my (borrowed) face.  The gates of the park were closed, and I was once again forced to rely on Mlle. Giry's annoying yet useful height as a bit of assistance to myself, being quite vertically challenged.

((_Author's note: E!  I just like this.  It makes me happy.  REALLY happy. *bounces off on pogo-stick*))_

She pushed open the gate, and my heart seemed to drum in my ears; a deep, steady pulse.  I feared that others would hear it.  I feared that the other three had left the park.  I feared being abandoned.  No harsh feelings on my part are directed toward Mlle. Giry, but she was not doing very much to help me save for the gates and doors, and I was _convinced_ that if I really had to find a way to open them without her, I could.   At that precise moment I just hadn't any time to dawdle.

I retraced my steps to the grassy area where I had been only a few short hours ago, and held my breath.  I _needed_ them.  I had to see them...I knew not why, but the instinct was there.  Christine, the viscount, and Nadir were all part of it, as was Mlle. Giry.   They were sitting quietly under one of the huge leafy trees, looking so innocent and child-like, and almost basking in the sun.  It seemed that way from far away, but as we neared them, signs of worry and disdain were painted across their faces as vividly as if someone had splashed paint over them.

"Is...is that them?" Mlle. Giry wondered.

"Yes, it is."  I nodded confidently and approached them.

Christine stood abruptly.  "Erik!  What are you...what are you doing here?"

"Coming back for you," I replied as nonchalantly as I could.  "I could not stay."

The viscount's eyes widened as he saw poor Sarah-Meg standing nervously behind me, a giant in our eyes.  "And who is _that_?"

"Mlle. Giry, the dancer."

"Another soul?" Nadir whispered.  "How many were affected?  Oh, Erik, we have to solve this."

"I am not blind, Nadir!  I know that we must solve this!"  I almost yelled.

He mumbled something under his breath that I was too weary to discover the true meaning of.

"This could be a very long afterlife," I said at an equally undetectable pitch.  "A very long afterlife.  If it even is one."

((_Author's notes: Another chapter done...*wipes brow in mock weariness*  Also, a little note on the cast list.  I'm not too sure if it's exactly precise, so bear with me.  If you really do know the current cast list and this is wrong, do tell me.   I'm behind the times. ^^ *strokes own outdated cast list happily*_

_And thanks to the following authors for having reviewed every single chapter I've written: Deirdre of the Sorrows, Daroga's Rainy Daae, Phantom Aria, and Labyris/Gaia Angelus/Scented Mask (all the same person).   Fwee and magic to you all._

_And to my other reviewers.  Thanks for making writing this story so much easier with your inspiration._))


	9. Magic?

**Disclaimer**: See previous chapters.

**Author's notes**: Absolutely stunning.  My reviewers, each and ever one, are all WONDERFUL people.  Don't forget that.  ALL OF YOU.

**Gaia Angelus**, thanks. :-) And yes, hurrah for William Shakespeare.

**Opera Ghost Kid**, glad you liked it.

**Phantom Aria**, figurative statements concerning masked men are lovely…metaphorical nothingess is GOOD.

**Daroga's Rainy Daae**, yes, he is cute when he's so small, eh?

**BroadwayStar77**, I think that I will. ^-^

**Deirdre of the Sorrows**, isn't it ironic how I wanted it to be all dramatic and everything and it seems so damn CUTE???

**Lavendar**, tis okay.  I know it did seem weird at first.  (The plot, that is).  Actually, I was in London a few months ago and based on my geographical experiences, a trip to Her Majesty's Theatre is out of the question.  My gravest apologies…though I may insert little bits of knowledge that relate to the musical.  Keep your eyes peeled!

**BW**, Door-Knob Bits™ rock. :D  

**Christine Persephone**, mustn't she?  It's bound to be strange for her AND the rest of them.

**La Pamplemousse**, I'm vertically challenged too.  The rest of my family is so bloody tall and here's little old me…XD  Wait…I think I WANT a disaster beyond my imagination to occur if it means Erik visits. :P

**PhantomAngel22**, give the poor man some compassion! *shakes head* 

**The Countess**, hope Jehan survives in the box…did you drill air-holes in it!?  And thank you.

**Sharonarnotdon**, aren't computers the WORST?

Quote of the chapter:

"_Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic._"

~Arthur C. Clarke

_"Élan Vital" _by the Phantom Parisienne

Chapter Eight: Magic?  

"Shhh," Mlle. Giry whispered.  "What if someone hears us?"  She lived in her fear-filled world of "what if?"  Her world was based on the philosophy of "what if?"  Every action has a reaction, and everything she did would have a result.  She knew this, and was wary of everything.  Absolutely _everything_, nothing excluded.  Every step of hers was a tiptoe in fear of creaking a floorboard and in turn awakening some sort of demon.  Every word uttered was careful and mentally censored before she said it, for fear that someone would overhear.  

M. le Vicomte tried his very best to ignore her.  "Now…_monsieur_"—he said this as coldly as was possible for a boy of his age—"you surely must know how this strange set of happenings came to be?"  _Me? _ I was expected to have all of the answers?  Damn them all!  They surely thought that I, the whimsically inventive, maniacally satirical opera ghost knew anything and everything concerning fantasy and the occult.  They were most definitely wrong.

"Of course not!"  I did not leave out the "monsieur" because of a simple accident.  I did not find it appropriate to address him as such; I had very little respect for the gentleman not because he was a bad man, but because he loved my Angel, and because I suspected that she loved him back. "It's a mystery to me."

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!  Beep-beep!  Beep-beep!  Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!  Beep-beep!  Beep-beep!

((_Author's note: You are officially the most awesome person ever if you can name that tune.  I'd be very, very proud of you_.))

Every single one of us leapt several feet in the air away from the source of the noise.  This was especially difficult for Sarah-Meg, because she _was _the source of the noise.  I think that if she were in her usual body that she would've screamed.  Fortunately, she did not.  She simply shoved her hands into her pockets to find whatever was making that absurdly pesky sound.  Nadir glanced at the passers-by.  They didn't seem to think that our miniature drama was peculiar in any way at-all!  I found _this_, this nonchalance towards the mysterious annoying sound rather unnerving.  Frowning, she pulled a small, pink, plastic-y object about the size of her palm out of her coat-pocket and shoved it toward me.

Me?  Again, me.  I knew everything….I could solve it for them.  They thought I could.  But I knew otherwise.  In a flash of recognition, I realised what the pink thing was. It was like that object in the flat that I had curiously examined.  "1, 2, 3, 4, 5…"  I pressed a blue button and held it right in front of my face, expecting it to do something.  The ringing-sound stopped abruptly and I heard muted shouting.

"Get back home, Sarah!  And you took your brother?  Your father is disappointed; he's leaving tomorrow, you don't even say 'hello' to him when you walk in the door; you just storm off to your room!"  I couldn't hear it very well, so I put the thing closer to my ear.  "I don't appreciate this one bit.  You hear me?  I was about to call the police when I remembered that you replaced your cell-phone last month and decided to call instead…   My poor wandering children are alone in London.  I trust you, but you've never really co-operated with your little brother, and I think…Sarah?  Sarah?  Are you listening?  Sarah, don't ignore me…damn!  Please…"  She was angry, but panic leaked through the object.  She was afraid.  She was worried.  She was acting like any mother would if her two children ran off.  That made me think.  Perhaps my own mother…my real, true, mother…really felt this way when I had left?  Impossible.  She didn't care.  "Don't ignore me, Sarah.  I hear you breathing; I know you're there."

Raoul's left arm embraced Christine's shoulder and held her close to his body.  She stared at me, her head leaning on his shoulder.  Nadir stood on one side, his head curiously tilted to one side, his bright green eyes sparkling with curiosity and confusion.   Mlle. Giry knelt down on the ground so she could be at eye-level with the rest of us and stared at me.  I was in the spotlight; on the stage.

"Please?" she begged.  "Say something."

I couldn't really say anything…my mind fumbled for a useful line.  "Mama…"  Simple, yet a definite confirmation (for her) of my "identity."

"Stephen?" she whispered.  "Mother" inhaled sharply.

((_Author's note: Spelling may be different, but find the symbolism.  If you can't, there's something honestly wrong with you…think OLC_.))

I couldn't think of a way to turn it off.  I couldn't keep this up any longer.  It hurt so much to lie to her!  Before, lying had been a usual part of my life.  Now, lying to someone who really and truly cared was one of the hardest things in the world.  Unable to do anything else, I flung the thing onto the ground and stepped on it.  I heard it crack beneath my feet.  I took a deep breath.  Christine, knowing her love for fairy-tales and myths, most likely thought that that thing was magic.  I knew it was something that was bound to cause a defect in civilisation.

"What was _that_?" Sarah-Meg wondered.

"I don't know!" I shouted.  "I really don't."

It was then that it became apparent that being frustrated only fuelled the blazing flames of my temper.  

"Erik…" Christine whispered.  Her childish voice made me shiver with happiness.  I only wanted her to repeat my name again…  "Erik…please…we'll find a way.  We have to."

"Mlle. Daaé _is_ correct, Erik.  If there was some way we got into this terrible situation, there must be a way out of it," Nadir reflected.

"Perhaps it's a way in?  Maybe we're locked out.  Maybe there's a door and we need a key."  My eyes shifted to M. le Vicomte, who was innocently staring at Nadir, in reply.  I blinked.  I didn't think he was capable of such depth, but his observation _did _have merit.  

"Maybe so," Nadir muttered, before glancing at me.  "Erik?"

"M. le Vicomte, you may very well be correct.  Until we really know for sure, we're going to have to find a place to stay."  I paced back and forth, my hands tightly clenched behind my back. 

"What's this?"  Christine bent over and picked something off the ground; a small rectangular piece of thick paper.  The hem of her blue frock skimmed the ground as she kneeled, freeing herself from Raoul's arms.  "I can't read it.  It's in English."  

All eyes once again turned toward me.  I shifted uncomfortably, my foot crunching the now-destroyed pink thing.  Swiftly, I took it from Christine's hands.  Only one glance needed to tell me that Fate was playing a terrible trick on me that day.  "It's nothing," I muttered, tossing it behind my shoulder.  Why on _earth _was my alias, "_Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_," following me around like a second shadow?  I couldn't say.  Thankfully, Christine did not understand English.  If she had, I would've had quite a predicament…a second predicament, really, what with everything else that had happened in such a short space of time.  And presently, my one predicament was, in itself, more than I could handle.


	10. The Journey Home

Disclaimer: If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times.

I'd like to thank Christine and CGG.  

And to everyone who reviewed: thank you.

We're nearing the close of this literary journey, I am sorry to say.  The ending isn't far off.  

_"The journey home_

_is never too long..."_

~"The Journey Home", Bombay Dreams

"Élan Vital"

Chapter Nine: The Journey Home

The look of sheer love on the viscount's face made me want to die.  He really loved her, I could tell.  That shining, pure innocence that radiated from her was undoubtedly the same that had drawn both him and myself to her in 1881.  I was, by then, quite sure that they had had their happy ending and died of natural causes in a faraway place where they barely remembered the Opera ghost.  In a way I had provoked that ending, so there was no reason for me to regret it.  Why, then, did I feel so awfully guilty and rue the day I had released her?

"Perhaps we should go?"  Mlle Giry ventured.  Her voice wavered uncertainly.  "It's getting dark."

The sun was only starting to descend in the sky; we still had quite some time before the night came upon us.  I understood her fear, though I did not share it.  I felt as though my home were coming; the darkness was coming.  Though I knew in my heart that home wasn't really a definable place.   I'd never had a real home, and never would.  I was always searching on that never-ending journey for a place I could be safe and happy.

"Oh, yes, I agree," Christine said.  

Raoul stroked her hair, a tender smile dancing on his pink lips.  I trembled.  Why couldn't that be my hand in his place?  He was just too fortunate.  

"Yes, let's," Nadir agreed.  

"But where are we going?"  Monsieur de Chagny spoke up.  

"We're going back to the beginning," I said as I frowned.  "Mlle. Giry, please do open that gate."  She scurried toward the gate as Christine, M. de Chagny, Nadir, and I followed her as fast as our impossibly short legs would carry us.  

The autumn winds nearly blew Christine, M. de Chagny, Nadir, and myself off of our feet and into the sky, they were so forceful.  With Mlle. Giry and myself at the head of the group, we cut our way through the breaths of Nature, determined to escape this fantastically odd, impossibly real situation.  I dare not say nightmare, for even though I hoped it was something I would wake from, writhing in my coffin, I knew it to be real and all too terrifyingly fascinating.

Raoul and Christine huddled close together as the winds picked up speed as we retraced our steps.

The trip seemed to fly by very quickly, as I concentrated on moving forward rather than worrying.  The door of the apartment loomed above us.  Mlle. Giry instinctively attempted to open it before realizing that the lock was in place.  So she knocked.

I had approximately ten seconds to come up with a plan.

"Mlle. Giry, when she comes to the door she will most likely demand an explanation from you . . . in English.  I assume that giving one to her will be impossible for you?"

"Yes.  What shall we do?"  She wrung her hands.

"Listen!  We shall not say a word.  I have an idea of what must be done," I said in foolishness, not really having any idea at all of what to do, but trying to reassure them that there was hope, " and we can do it quickly."

Three seconds.

"Now – Mlle. Giry, when she opens the door, you should – you should pick me up – pick me up and run inside.  Everyone else just –"

"SARAH!" "Mother" screeched as the door swung open.  Her eyes bulged and her hair flew outwards in a stormy dark cloud.  

"Madame?"  I was swept into Mlle. Giry's shaking, panic-ridden arms as she rushed inside.  

"Get back here!" she yelled, her voice quickly becoming hoarse.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Christine, M. de Chagny, and Nadir standing at the door, faced by a furious Englishwoman resembling an overgrown raven.  For that moment I was a bit glad that I was not M. de Chagny.

I could tell that she was torn between her motherly duty to chase after Sarah-Meg and myself and demand an explanation or to stare, bewildered, at the three children standing at her door.

And something in the corner of my attracted my attention: the mirror, now hanging on the wall. 

"Stop!  Mlle. Giry!"  In a flying fury of legs and arms, we crashed into the mirror.  And surprisingly enough, we didn't smash it.  It trembled like marmalade instead of breaking into a thousand pieces.  I dared not touch it again.

"Monsieur?"  She yelped.  

We sat on the floor in front of "Mother," who was scowling at us and breathing heavily.

"I want an explanation," she said, quivering.

Christine looked at me as if to say "why are we here?" as M. de Chagny hesitantly put his right foot forward and walked inside. Nadir held his hands behind his back in that neat, folded manner than he always had.

"Madame, I assure you — " I began in French before realizing how traumatizing this had been for her.

"Where is my son?" she said suddenly.  "What have you done with my son?"  She fell into a chair and stared at me, unblinking.  "Where is my darling Stephen?  _What have you done with him_?"

"I don't think — " 

"Where is he!?  And my daughter?  You are not my daughter . . . you are an impostor!  Where is Sarah?  Where is Stephen?  I beg of you . . ." she wailed.

Mlle. Giry put her head in her hands, utterly bewildered.  "Monsieur, please . . .?"

Christine walked past Raoul, and, not even understanding what "Mother" was saying, put an arm on her shoulder.  She understood the emotion and compassion that all women understand together, despite their native language.  The message didn't come across as well as poor Christine had intended, and the "mother" shook.

My attentions were once again diverted to the mirror.  It seemed to have a strange gravity about it . . . drawing me closer until . . . it would envelop the five of us — Mlle. Giry, Christine, M. de Chagny, Nadir, and myself — and everything went pitch-black.

A shrill scream echoed in the back of my mind.

I _knew_ that scream.  

I knew it like I knew the manuscript of _Don Juan Triumphant_; inside and out, cover to cover, note by note.

"Christine?"  My voice died in the darkness.


	11. Time To Say Goodbye

Another long-awaited chapter. Usual disclaimers apply. Thanks, Beads! New readers are always wonderful. ^_^ Lavendar, fate is a lovely thing.  
  
I apologise sincerely for this. I'm well-aware that a bunch of people are going to harm me after they read this.  
  
tattered sparrow, calm down with the Philippe thing. I most definitely know that he would've been nice in this. If you want Philippe, I've written a Philippe story and actually have a Philippe _fan-club_. You can contact moi at MlleRedDeath@Netscape.Net for details or talk to La Pamplemousse. Say "SOAP" by TPP to her and she'll most likely get it.  
  
On with the show!  
  
~~  
  
"Élan Vital"  
Chapter Ten: Time To Say Goodbye  
  
  


"Christine! Angel!" I cried out in the darkness. Where was she...? That scream, that terrified, frightened scream... I needed to be with her. "Christine! Christine!" I could not see anything except for the suffocating, choking darkness. There was no sound save for that of my hoarse, childish voice. The only feeling of having physicality was in the strange, topsy-turvy feeling of my stomach, flip-flopping as if I were falling at a high speed. How was I to find her like this?  
  
  


"_Chwistine! Angel!_" "My" voice echoed, with Stephen's voice woven into it.  
  
  


There was another scream.  
  
  


"Please, please, where _are_ you?" My voice shook.   
  
  


And then there was some soft, muffled sobbing... those sobs nearly tore my soul in two. Hearing the cold grief of the person I loved, and not being able to do a single thing to help cure it, was terrifying...  
  
  


"Erik? Angel?" Golden musical overtones laced with childish innocence resonated in the air.  
  
  


I was falling; gliding, descending, oh so quietly, downward... the air was cool, riding through my hair.   
  
  


"_Ewik? Angwel?_" a voice echoed: childish innocence woven around a golden musical voice.  
  
  


"Christine, where are you?"  
  
  


"I'm here, Erik! Right beside you . . . oh, I'm frightened, help . . . it's so cold here, where are we? Why are we —?"  
  
  


I put my hands out to both sides and felt a trembling, cold body come into contact with my hand.   
  
  


"Where is everyone?"  
  
  


"I — I don't know . . ."  
  
  


"_Stephen_?" the soprano accompanied with the girl's voice said inquisitively, her voice an early-morning bell rising above the silence of dawn.  
  
  


My arm wrapped around her.   
  
  


"They ... were in their real forms... Meg was Meg again... and Raoul was Raoul—" I shuddered "—and M. Khan was M. Khan and it was right and they went away..." she put her face in my shoulder, bushes of golden curls almost suffocating me. "And the children, too, the real children... they were very scared, but they went home too..."  
  
  


"There, shh..."   
  
  


"_Where's Mummy_?"  
  
  


"What was that? It sounded like you!" She raised her cherubic face and looked into my eyes. "It wasn't you; it was that boy!"  
  
  


"Yes, it was, Christine." A strange sort of gravity gnawed at my core. "It was Stephen." I sighed sadly.   
  
  


The two voices were coming from the atmosphere, and from no real place at all. Like big, decorative ribbons, they simply hung there. With no actual origin, they existed, and that was the end of the matter.  
  
  


"Erik, can you feel that?" She closed her eyes. "We're being torn apart. I'm so sorry... Feel it? I'm going one way and you're going the other..."  
  
  


It was true. Our bodies were being drawn, as if magnetically, apart. Very slowly we moved, so that I could still hold her hand with ease for a good minute.  
  
  


"Erik, where are you going?"  
  
  


I didn't say anything; light was blinding me; pure, beautiful, sudden light. It warmed me from head to toe. I felt my limbs elongating and my body growing. My eyes closed. "Christine..."  
  
  


"Erik!" Her frantic cries had heightened into a full soprano's operatic exclamations, the sort that a diva would make in the middle of a climatic scene to lament a lost lover.  
  
  


"Don't cry, child... remember 'Faust'? Remember: 'Fate links thee to me for-ever and a day!' You won't ever forget _that_, little angel..." I smiled through the light. "This was a small bump in our road of life, which is a rocky and long one, indeed. It goes on forever, in a very large circle, but as we tread it, we wear it away... and I'll see you again; it'll go around in a circle..." I believed what I was saying to her; I believed it with every shard of my soul.  
  
  


"Erik..." Her voice eventually blended in with the light, so that the voice was no longer heard, but rather _sensed_. It eventually grew faint, so that it was like nothing more than a dim memory from childhood, but I clung to it.  
  
  


With only that to hold on to, I will wait. And wait. And wait. When love is the reward and Fate mixes itself into Time's misty concoction, Eternity will seem as only a few moments...  
  
  


-  
  
  


_Quando sei lontana  
sogno all'orizzonte  
e mancan le parole,  
e io si lo so  
che sei con me, con me,  
tu mia luna tu sei qui con me,  
mio sole tu sei qui con me,  
con me, con me, con me._  
  
  


(English)  
_When you are far away  
I dream of the horizon  
and words fail,  
and, yes, I know  
that you are with me;  
you, my moon, are here with me,  
my sun, you are here with me  
with me, with me, with me.  
~Time To Say Goodbye, _Sarah Brightman_  
  
  
_

_-  
  
Fin  
December 23, 2003 _


End file.
